Pesto alla Trapanese, and a Tableside Chat with My Dad

Often when I’m in the kitchen cooking alone, imaginary conversations flow through my head. Sometimes they’re with friends or family who have died, or they’re with people I’ve lost touch with, or occasionally they involve fantasy chats with people I wish I knew. Sometimes these dialogues are deeply revealing, sometimes maudlin, but more often they’re just mundane rhythms that catch at a truth.

My father died too young more than a decade ago. When I first became interested in cooking, as a teenager, we often had goofy little talks about food. I can’t remember any conversation word for word, but I like to imagine that he’s still with me, shooting the shit about things he loves—tomato sauce, peaches in red wine, mango smoothies, roasted peppers, steaks on the grill. I try to capture the cadence of his voice, hear the Westchester Italian swing of it. I’m pretty sure I never made this Trapanese pesto for him, but I’m making it now, and he seems to like it.

Dick: Boy, this is hot.

Me: You sprinkle pepper flakes on everything, even on cantaloupe. I figured you’d go for this.

Dick: But that stuff’s not this hot.

Me: That red crap in the jar is stale. You put layers of it on pizza, but it’s just dust.

Dick: It’s not stale. That’s the way it was designed. It looks hotter than it is, from the color.

Me: So you think pepper flakes are born stale?

Dick: What?

Me: You think they start out stale?

Dick: Yes, that’s what I think, Smartass.

Me: I used fresh peppers here. The ones you grow, the long red ones. They’re not traditional in this pasta at all, but I threw them in. They’re all turning red at once.

Dick: I thought you said this was pesto.

Me: It’s a different type. It’s Sicilian.

Dick: Tastes Mexican. Tastes like taco sauce.

Me: It’s a variation on a Sicilian pesto.

Dick: It’s not green, for one thing.

Me: It’s a variation on a Sicilian pesto.

Dick: This is unrecognizable as pesto. For starts, there’s no basil in here.

Me: I don’t think I’ve made you Sicilian pesto before. It’s from Trapani. There actually is basil, but mint also. It’s mixed in. You’ve got tons of mint back there.

Dick: I’ve had pesto plenty, by you and by everyone, and this is not it. Not with tomatoes. No way.

Me: It’s deconstructed.

Dick: What the hell are you talking about?

Me: It’s usually more chopped. I leave it chunky.

Dick: You spend a lot of time cooking. You training to become a maid?

Me: Yeah, that’s my goal. God.

Dick: I liked that macaroni you made last week, with the raw tomatoes.

Me: Daddy, this is basically the same thing, but without the almonds. That had capers. And it didn’t have mint. This is a finer dice. There is basil in here. I don’t know why you don’t taste it. You can even see it. When did you open this wine? It taste like prunes. It’s gross.

Dick: That’s because it’s stale, like the pepper flakes.

Me: Well there’s certainly a lot of stale stuff in this place. I’d like to replace the entire herb cabinet, the pepper flakes, the fennel seeds. The dried dill smells like pee, and whatever anyone uses that celery salt for, there are three bottles of it, one with some old crust on the top. You can’t even open them.

Dick: You know what’s stale? That boyfriend of yours crouched in the corner with the harmonica. Hillbilly Joe. That’s what’s stale.

Me: I’d have to agree with you on that one. I think maybe he’s an alcoholic, or a borderline one.

Dick: That’s just great. Where do you find these guys? They crouch. They don’t smile. They don’t talk. This one looks like a photo from the Civil War. Miserable granite face.

Me: Oh my god.

Dick: You’re laughing. I mean it. I’d like not to have to see that creep lurking around the house.

Me: I’m working on it, I swear. He’s weirdly hard to get rid of.

Dick: You think that’s funny?

Me: I don’t know. I guess.

Dick: A real laugh riot.

Me: So how do you like the pasta?

Dick: Now that it’s cooled down, I really like it. I like the hot pepper. It’s hot but not too hot. It tastes sort of Mexican.

Me: You grow good peppers. I love everything you’ve got in that garden.

Dick: I didn’t know you liked my garden so much. How’d you like to help me with some weeding?

Me: I’d do that.

Dick: You’d have to wear something other than ballet slippers.

Me: I think I could handle that.

Dick: How about this: I’ll load the dishwasher, you start on the weeds. I’ll be right out.

Me: But it’s already dark out.

Dick: I’ll grab a flashlight.

My Pesto Alla Trapanese

(Serves 6 as a first course)

This Sicilian pesto is traditionally more pulverized than I serve it. I don’t like the muddiness that develops when tomatoes and basil and nuts get mushed together, so I chop everything finely and just give it all a toss. No grinding here, and the colors stay vibrant.

Busiate is a long, coiled Sicilian pasta, usually made from durum wheat. Gustiamo sells a deeply wheaty-tasting version with a chewy texture made from tumminia, an heirloom wheat reintroduced in Sicily by Filippo Drago, who grows it there and produces this lovely pasta from it. It brings this classic dish to new heights of pleasure. Sicilian almonds from Noto and vin cotto are also available from Gustiamo.

Put the chopped tomatoes in a strainer. Sprinkle on a little salt, and give them a toss. Put a bowl under the strainer to catch the juice, and let them drain for about ½ hour, saving the tomato water.

Pour the tomatoes into a large pasta bowl. Add the garlic, vin cotto, peperoncino, and allspice. Add ⅓ cup olive oil. Give everything a stir, and let it sit for about 20 minutes to develop flavor.

Set up a pot of pasta cooking water, add salt, and bring it to a boil. Drop in the busiate.

Add the chopped almonds to the tomatoes.

When the busiate is al dente, drain it well, and add it to the tomatoes. Add the chopped basil and mint, and season with a little more salt. Toss, adding a drizzle more olive oil and, if it all seems dry, some of the tomato water. Grate a little ricotta salata or primo sale on top, and toss gently.

Garnish with the whole almonds and the whole basil leaves. Bring the cheese to the table for anyone who might want a little more. Serve hot or warm.

Thanks, Beatrice, Yes, Dad loved it. He grew wonderful peperoncini, which I used more than he did. And I’m sure he’d love your new Cilento stuff. I’m harvesting my own chilies right now and have been putting some up in good oil.

I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who engages in conversation with my deceased family. They’re pulling for me on the other side. And they mostly love my cooking too, but they are also free with the criticisms.
This looks like a great recipe. Looking forward to trying it out. :)

I LOVE Dick! Hmmmm…probably not what I should write here. Do more of these conversations. I talk to my Dad, Roy like this as well, well, not as cutely, but I’m going to steer the conversation in a more lighthearted direction going forward. And the therapy is Free!

The “pesto” is more elegant than my “natural Cucina Fresca cooking with that Saba, I may cheat because I haven’t had it since my stint at WS. Glad it’s back in. Ours was hard to sell, way over our customer’s heads.

Have I mentioned Jim and I “barter” for bruised tomatoes from our local farmer’s Mkt that they throw away every day, more in late summer? Yup. 25 years. We make them surprises like focaccia and galletes, gazpacho (Jim’s) and peach tortes (they throw in peaches). Nice eh?

Welcome to Ericademane.com

I am a chef, food writer, and teacher who specializes in improvisational Italian cooking. I am the author of The Flavors of Southern Italy and Pasta Improvvisata, as well as Williams-Sonoma Pasta, which is available at Williams-Sonoma stores. A member of the Association of Culinary Professionals and the Italian-based International Slow Food Movement, I live in New York City. I offer private cooking classes, which you can learn about here.